


why did you mess with forever?

by insunshine



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The holidays come to Dillon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	why did you mess with forever?

It’s Christmas, and it’s _Dillon_ , so it’s still sweltering, so hot he can barely see straight, and Tim wonders when he started hating Texas.

 

He’s never been one to complain about his lot in life. He’s not a saint or nothing, and Jay (when Jay used to be able to stand being in the same room as him, anyway) always used to say that he was never one to smile easy, but he’s not a complainer. He was never the one who wanted to get out of this town, or out of this place or out of this life.

 

He’s always been one with it, with Texas. Forever. The land, and his hands, and football and Jay; they’re all he’s ever needed.

 

It’s different now though.

 

Breathing isn’t enough anymore. The next pass, the ground below his feet and the sun in the sky, don’t come close to being everything he needs.

 

It scares the shit out of him, really, that he depends on seeing her so much, and that she doesn’t depend on him for anything at all.

 

 _I shouldn’t be here;_ she says, and even though she’s looking down and away from him, he can tell-he can _feel it in his bones_ , that she’s still breaking. He hates that. He hates it more than anything, and when he reaches forward a little, because it’s killing him, not touching her, he can’t help but take in the tears in her eyes, and the fact that her lips are as cracked as his knuckles.

 

 _Probably not;_ he replies, because it’s the truth, and because he’s never lied to her. It’s after he’s dropped his hand away, and after he’s tucked it on the seat, under his leg, because at least that way, it’ll take some effort before he tries to touch her again.

 

If he does that, he doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to stop.

 

 _I have cheer in an hour. We’re rehearsing for the parade. I can’t be late;_ she says, and she’s looking away again, or trying to, at least; but he can see her reflection in the glass of the window, can see how her eyes keep flicking back and forth to him and he has to try to keep from smiling.

 

He nods once, taking a much-needed breath of air, and leaning back against the worn leather of the booth. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Carlene, the morning waitress, bringing them out another pot of coffee, and he almost smiles again.

 

 _I should go;_ she says, her voice breaking the surface of the silence again. He shrugs, not opening his eyes, because it almost hurts to look at her.

 

He can smell the coffee as it gets closer, and he can feel her looking at him as he licks his lips.

 

_You asked me to come here, Tim. Are you ever going to tell me why?_

 

He takes a gulp off the steaming hot black, and opening his eyes, stares straight into hers, dark against light in every sense of the word.

 

 _Wanted to see you;_ he mumbles, and it’s her turn to almost smile as she turns away, looking out and taking, what he can only assume, is a calming breath.

 

They are both silent as his words hang lifeless in the air. She closes her eyes, breathing in deep again, and reaches across the table to take a sip of his coffee.

 

_Lyla Garrity, you just broke two, of the three most cardinal rules of etiquette; of ladylike behavior, even. I’d be shocked if I wasn’t so proud._

 

He doesn’t know where the words came from, and he’s fairly certain he’s never uttered such a long sentence in his entire life. She looks pretty surprised herself, and he can see another almost smile tipping the corners of her lips.

 

 _What can I say;_ she whispers, her voice low and seductive (even though he can almost guarantee that she doesn’t mean for it to be), sending something akin to goose pimples up and down his arms. _Reaching across tables and sharing a cup are_ dangerous, _and I like to live on the edge._

 

 _Is that why you’re here with me?_ He asks, and he means it as a joke, he really, really does. He doesn’t mean for it to start or end a fight, or for it to do anything, really. He just wants to see her smile again, but, as soon as the words pass his lips, he knows he said the wrong thing; as always.

 

 _I have to go;_ she says again, back to monosyllabic words and downcast eyes and sadness.

 

He thinks that touching her right now would probably be the biggest mistake in the world, but he does it anyway, the worn and beaten skin of his palm reaching to cup her cheek.

 

She flinches, but she doesn’t move away, and he’s got to take that as some sort of sign, or maybe a pardon from the Big Guy, because it’s Christmas, and even bad people get pardons now.

 

It’s something that his Daddy used to say. Even when he was reeking of beer, and he was stumbling over his steps, and even as he was telling Tim and Billy that their presents had just fallen off the slay, and that _of course_ Santa hadn’t forgotten them, it was his motto; _Bad or good, good or bad, on Christmas, there’s something for everybody._

 

Tim has never hated his father, he wouldn’t even know how, not the way that Billy hates him anyway, and the words are coming back on him now, because he’s so far from being good that he can’t even see the line anymore, and Lyla…being here with Lyla is more than everything he’s ever wanted.

 

He wants to tell her so. He wants to tell her that she means more than football, and more than Texas, and more than Jay, even, but he can’t, she won’t let him, so he doesn’t.

 

 _It’s really late, Tim. I should leave;_ she says something like, a minute later, even though it feels longer and shorter than that, all at once. He doesn’t want to let her go, and he almost loses his mind when her tiny fingers come up and cup around where his hand is still resting.

 

He can feel the moisture on her face, and he wants to not look at her anymore, because it hurts; it fucking _hurts_ , god dammit, and he hates that the whole mess of her life is all his fault.

 

 _Yeah, Okay._ He says, because there’s nothing else to. His hand drops, onto the table first, and then onto the seat again, and he shifts only slightly to move it back under his leg. She’s leaving, and while there won’t be anyone to reach out and touch anymore, he wants to save himself the embarrassment of petting like, the freaking _spoon_ she used to stir her coffee, or maybe the sugar packets she was playing with when she first sat down. His fingers are twitching already, and he has to press down harder on them. He closes his eyes, and leans back against the seat again. 

 

He doesn’t want to watch her go.

 

 _Merry Christmas, Tim;_ she whispers, and his eyes pop open, because he thought she’d left already, and she leans down, and presses her lips against his cheek, and he never wants it to stop.

 

He wants to tell her so, he _is_ telling her so, just as soon as-

 

The bells on the door jingle, and she’s already gone.


End file.
